Marzouga, Morocco: The Revenge Of The Disgruntled Camel (cont.)

I notice the smooth surfaces of sand are dotted with unsightly black plastic bags, no surprise in this kingdom of litter, and a trail of camel dung—small piles of black pellets—that lead to our campsite like cairns. When Nadir’s camel chooses to relieve itself, which is often, the pellets plop to the ground like marbles thrown from a child’s hand. Sometimes, the stiff wind blows them over the ridges of sand dunes. With all the time in the world to observe and think, I decide to name my camel Amos—the first name that comes to mind; and Zineb calls hers Colin (pronounced “Cohleen” in French) in homage to actor Colin Ferrell.

I’m not sure I can adequately describe the sensation of being in the stirrup-less saddle. When the camel strides on a flat surface, its long legs and the motion of its chubby torso produce a repetitive whip-like motion in the rider’s body. When the camel climbs, he takes short strides, and the rider’s movement in the saddle is minimal. When the camel descends, however, he extends his stride, jolting the rider with every awkward step and making it challenging to breathe. More importantly, the only way to prevent myself from falling forward is to grip the handle of the saddle and extend my arms to hold myself in place—despite the strain of constantly tensing my arm and stomach muscles.

A dull ache from the inside of my thighs is the first sign of trouble.  I can’t precisely locate the source of the pain because it’s overlapping with the chafing of my jeans against the inside of my thighs. If there were stirrups (why aren’t there stirrups?) extending from this saddle, I could stand up and momentarily relieve the twinge of pain in my thighs, my inflamed skin, and the soreness in my butt.  Instead, I grip my left ankle with my hand and bend my leg so my heel is touching my thigh. The hurdler’s stretch temporarily eases the pain in my legs, but my ass is another story. I slide back in the saddle, but the dull pain continues.

Myriam is in a similar hell from an irritated sciatic nerve in her left leg that flares up whenever she sits for long periods of time. Finally, an hour into the trip, she halts the procession, dismounts, and walks the rest of the way to the campsite.

I should follow her, but somehow that feels like cheating. I gaze at the others, who seem unbothered.  Myriam, finally freed from the saddle, strides aggressively in front of our procession as though she’s about to discipline a mischievous child somewhere ahead of us. Eventually she disappears between the sand dunes. But there’s no real danger of her getting lost in the fading light and blowing sand with the trail of camel pellets to point the way.

Our campsite finally appears behind an imposing sand dune. It consists of a dozen black canvas tents arranged elliptically around a central palm tree. We dismount in a minefield of camel dung and advance gingerly through a flimsy wooden arch past the tents to a rug, table, and footstools spread out on the sand.
A man in a jalaba places a candlelit lantern on our table, and we sip the warm, sugary mint tea by the flickering light and then collapse on the rugs. My eyes search in vain for stars in between the thick cloud cover overhead.

After dinner, Myriam and I climb the base of a giant sand dune and lie on our backs, savoring the silence of the empty landscape. The wind finally dies down, and our ears tune themselves to the subtlest sounds—the clinking of glasses, the rustling of tent flaps, and laughter—from the camp below. The nearly full moon glows behind the clouds; and after some time passes, we head to our tents for a much-deserved rest.

I wake up in the dead of night to pee. I find a flashlight, exit the tent, and stroll quietly in the warm sand in search of a pellet-free place to relieve myself. I pass a man crouched beneath his tent, the red glow of his cigarette a firefly in the darkness. And in that instant I know the journey out here was worth it, just for the fleeting chance to stand alone in the desert in the middle of the night.

Myriam shakes me awake an hour or two later with the intention of scaling the big sand dune to watch the sunrise—that is, before she discovers how difficult it is.   For every two steps forward, we sink to our ankles and slide one step backward. Myriam and Zineb surrender after a five minutes, but Nadir and I persevere to the summit.

The sun is blocked by a thick blanket of clouds on the horizon, but the panoramic view is spectacular in every direction. Nevertheless, our efforts have put us behind schedule. Zineb calls us down from the mountain of sand, and fifteen minutes later we’re on the camels, heading back to the resort for a warm shower and buffet breakfast.  

Immediately the familiar pain of the night before returns. I lean back in the saddle to lessen the pain, but this time it feels like a sharp rock is being pounded into my ass.  Nadir turns around after one of my audible gasps and smiles: “It’s difficult, isn’t it?” His gentle understatement causes a river of involuntary laughter to spew from my mouth.

The guide hears our complaints and, without a word, halts our caravan and uses his walking stick to scratch some advice in the sand.

“Don’t be uptite,” he scrawls in a script large enough for all of us to understand despite the misspelling.

If I could, I’d jump from my uncomfortable saddle, seize the stick from his hand, and scratch another sentence below his: “Next time, I’ll walk.”

Our camels continue to plod clumsily toward the resort, and our guide decides to wield his walking stick like a sword, scratching Arabic syllables in the sand. Is he angry? Disappointed? Just anxious to practice his calligraphy? If I could speak his Moroccan dialect, I’d ask him if he’d like to trade places with me.

And what about my camel, Amos? Is it my imagination, or is he responding to my complaints, by exaggerating his movements, knowing they will increase my discomfort?  “What a whiny bastard,” Amos must be muttering in a language only his three overburdened companions can understand. “I swear, if he ever shows his face in Marzouga again, he’s a dead man.”

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